


Doctor Sherlock

by DoctorRainyStardusttheThird (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, Hurt/Comfort, Other, i wrote this from a prompt, john gets shot, poor old sherlock and john, sherlock's scarf saves the day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-06-14 10:04:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15386391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/DoctorRainyStardusttheThird
Summary: I wrote a story off a message I got a little while back:"How about this for a prompt: the 'injured doctor has to talk their friend through healing them' trope cuz, y'know, John is a doctor & also I saw a post on pinterest that went something along the lines of John getting shot and dying in Sherlock's arms as he talks sherlock thru how to help him. "





	Doctor Sherlock

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Danja](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Danja/gifts).



> this is for danja cus she gave me this lovely prompts.
> 
> it's very angsty.
> 
> btw bad language xx
> 
> hope you like :)

_We were going to get Chinese tonight._

Sherlock was standing, frozen, in the dank, dark alleyway. His best friend was bleeding out in front of him and all he could think was –

_We were going to get Chinese tonight._

They’d called Angelo and made a reservation. They’d have to cancel it now, Sherlock supposed.

He felt like the yells from Lestrade and the Yarders were coming from a long way away. They were muffled, like he was underwater.

Vaguely he felt his feet begin to move. He skidded a little as he fell to his knees beside John, slipping on something warm and sticky.

 _Blood,_ his stupid, slow mind told him. _That’s John’s blood._

‘John,’ Sherlock breathed. ‘John. Can you hear me? John? John!’

John was on his back on the cold tarmac, the ground still damp from last night’s rain. His eyelids were flickering, gaze unfocused.

‘Sher…Sherlock?’

Sherlock started at the sound of his voice, slurred and soft as it was. ‘John? Can you hear me?’

‘Am I hit?’

‘Uh…’ Sherlock’s eyes were panicked, John could see that even in the dim half-light.

John sighed, and dropped his head back. ‘Not again.’

‘Ssh, John, you’re going to be fine.’ Sherlock ripped off his coat and put it round John’s shoulders. Then he gently began to feel John’s blood-soaked abdomen, searching for the source. The wound.

They’d been following several gunmen who’d let fire in the middle of a London street two days ago and somehow got away. Sherlock had tracked them to the back alleys of London’s centre, but there hadn’t been time to call Scotland Yard.

God, he wished he had now.

Sherlock’s shaking hands fumbled for his mobile. It nearly slipped from his fingers as he punched in 9-9-9, slick with blood.

He let it drop to the floor, replying to the operator with desperate shouts as his fingers probed John’s stomach again.

His best friend suddenly let out an agonized shout, tearing from his struggling lungs.

‘Oh, God, John,’ Sherlock said, breathing rapid and shallow. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’

At least the wound was relatively low down. It would’ve avoided his lungs and heart. _Thank God._

The biggest problem was the bleeding. It was bad. John was dipping in and out of consciousness, as Sherlock spoke quickly into the phone, telling the 999 operator where they were and what had happened.

‘Hurry the fuck up!’ Sherlock yelled desperately. He never cussed, he registered vaguely. But this was definitely a _fuck_ kind of situation.

‘John, talk to me, please,’ Sherlock begged. He was aware of a hot prickling in his eyes.

John’s eyes flickered open again, bright blue in the shadow of the alley.

‘Help’s on the way, John, you hear? You’ve got to stay awake for me now, okay?’

John took another breath. ‘Sherlock…’ he mumbled.

‘Can you tell me what to do, John?’

Sherlock’s eyes were wild. He’d taken off his scarf and had it pressed to the wound in John’s stomach, even as the doctor groaned in agony.

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry!’ Hearing John in pain was quite possibly the worst thing Sherlock had ever experienced, and knowing he couldn’t ease it was the worst feeling. ‘John, what do I do?’

‘Keep…keep putting pressure on th…the wound…’ John murmured. Each word seemed to take a massive effort.

Sherlock doubled the force he was putting on his scarf. John made a garbled sound of pain, his breath coming in agonized gasps.

‘You are not allowed to leave me,’ Sherlock said. He attempted to sound firm, but it came out more like a plea. ‘Okay?’

John smiled weakly. His mouth formed the word ‘okay.’

‘What do I do next?’ Sherlock glanced nervously over his shoulder. Could he hear sirens? Please, he prayed. Please let there be sirens.

‘Keep…keep asking m’ questions,’ John said, his breath hitching.

Sherlock looked at his hands in horror. The blood had soaked through his scarf already. ‘John, John…’

John’s eyes had slipped closed again.

‘John, who’s the prime minister?’ Sherlock said, attempting to keep John’s words in mind.

John’s light eyelashes flickered again. ‘Theresa…May.’

There was a pause. ‘I have no idea if that’s right or not.’

John gave a weak chuckle, but it tailed off into a small moan.

‘Okay, John, please….you’re bleeding too badly.’

John huffed. ‘You need to…’

His face went slack as he fell back into blissful unconsciousness again.

‘John? What do I need to do?’ Bile rose up in Sherlock’s throat as he bent over John, fumbling for a pulse. It was slow and sluggish. Sherlock shook John’s shoulders, any pretence of calm abandoning him. He felt a tear slide down his face, warm and unfamiliar.

‘Need to…plug the wound…’

Sherlock glanced round. ‘There’s nothing to…

John’s face was screwed up, covered in a light sheen of sweat. Sherlock could make out his white pallor in the sickly yellow glow of a nearby streetlamp.

‘Is the wound…hissing, or bubbling? Because…don’t plug it, if it…’

‘It’s not a pneumothorax, the bullet hit your stomach,’ Sherlock said, trying to sound reassuring.

‘Oh, great,’ John said, rolling his eyes. ‘That’s…so much – better.’

Sherlock felt in his coat pockets, but they were empty.

‘Is there – an exit wound?’

‘I haven’t checked.’ Anxiety flooded through Sherlock again. ‘Do you think you could roll over?’

John’s face said it all.

‘Okay, no…’ Sherlock carefully eased a hand under John’s side, trying to ignore the terrible sounds his friend was making. It was difficult to tell whether the blood soaking John’s back was from the entrance wound or the exit wound. As gently as he could, Sherlock pressed around the middle of John’s lower back, waiting for his yell of agony.

‘I..I think the bullet’s still inside you,’ Sherlock panted.

‘Okay,’ John gasped out. ‘Have you found anything…to…’

‘No,’ Sherlock said, still searching frantically. He could hear sirens and footsteps and yells, coming closer, but they were still too far away. He began to swear quietly under his breath, every bad word he knew.

‘It’s…that bad, huh,’ John said, watching him.

Sherlock finally extracted a knife from the lining of his Belstaff. John looked at it warily, blue eyes glazed.

‘No, no, John, stay with me, okay?’

‘O – kay,’ John muttered. ‘I’ll do my bloody best.’

Sherlock momentarily took his scarf off the wound in John’s stomach, nausea rising in him as more blood pooled from it. With trembling hands he cut through the fabric with the blade, cutting off a long strip.

‘This – this might hurt a bit,’ Sherlock said, feeling horribly guilty. John’s eyes were unfocused.

Sucking in a deep breath, Sherlock took the strip and folded it. Then he pushed it into the wound, slowing the blood flow.

John gave a muffled groan, eyes glassy.

‘Come on, come on,’ Sherlock murmured.

He couldn’t lose John. John, the first person to fully accept him,  no conditions. And Sherlock would torture himself forever if he thought it was his fault if John…if John didn’t make it.

_He will. He has to._

Sherlock suddenly felt a shower of ice-cold fear down his spine. ‘John,’ he said. ‘John?’

John wasn’t breathing.

‘Hell, hell, fucking hell!’

Lestrade and Donovan raced round the corner, the ambulance screaming a small way behind them.

‘Who’s hurt?’ Donovan yelled at Lestrade.

‘I don’t know, but if Sherlock called an ambulance, it must be…’ Lestrade didn’t dare finish that thought.

‘It must be what?’ Donovan panted.

‘Bad,’ Lestrade said, feeling sick. ‘It must be bad. It could be John.’

Donovan was talking into her radio, calling for backup in case the shooters were still nearby.

Lestrade rounded the corner to find an awful sight.

Sherlock had his hands pressed together and was repeatedly pushing down on John’s ribcage, pleading quietly. John was unresponsive, his face ghostly pale.

‘Shit.’ Lestrade fell to his knees behind John. Sherlock barely looked up.

‘Is the ambulance nearly here?’

‘It’s on its way.’

Sherlock was shaking violently. His eyes were bright – brighter than they should be. _Crying,_ Lestrade thought with a kind of horrified fascination. _Sherlock Holmes is crying._

At that moment the paramedics raced round the corner.

Sherlock carried on the CPR, even as the paramedics attempted to pull him away. His bare hands and forearms were covered in blood, and his eyes were wild with panic.

‘Don’t let him die,’ Sherlock repeated, as he was tugged away. ‘Please don’t let him die.’

Donovan rounded the corner, stumbling back in shock when she took in the scene.

‘Come on…’ Lestrade saw the man swaying. ‘You’re probably in shock. Sherlock…’

John’s eyes flicked open, jewel-blue flashing for a moment in the dark alley. He sucked in a weak, thready breath. The paramedics made sounds of relief. Lestrade rubbed his face.

‘He’s back with us,’ the closest paramedic said reassuringly. He looked at Sherlock. ‘You did good.’

‘He’s going to be fine,’ the detective inspector mumbled. ‘He’s going to be alright, Sherlock.’

Sherlock collapsed against the building, the bricks digging into his back, and put his head in his hands.

And the great Sherlock Holmes began to cry.

**Author's Note:**

> hope you liked it :)
> 
> i know it's a bit unresolved so if you comment saying you want an epilogue i'll write one xx


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